


Jordan and Gatsby are gay parallels

by Gruntled_bicyclops



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:12:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruntled_bicyclops/pseuds/Gruntled_bicyclops
Summary: I need to save a previous version of this with wordcount for my literature assignment





	Jordan and Gatsby are gay parallels

Gatsby was a being who was as enigmatic as he was decadent -- a woman of any stature would readily trip over standards and glittering heels to become acquainted with his stature. While she knew this, Jordan Baker was a woman who understood her frame and physique - she did not trip, or extend herself where not necessary. She was a woman of a single-minded nature, a golden figure which saved her energy for greater projects and pretences, whose longevity was of greater importance than the dullness of a foothold, one which requires a love of convenience. This single-minded nature had propelled her through her life at an exhilarating rate; increasing with each consuming moment like the insistence of an opiate. With each introduced entitlement, she became more and more comfortable to wend her way through the vibrant cacophony of a party’s inhabitants - a champion of mingling and searching through increasingly bland subjects, Jordan had yet to find a soul as brilliant and steadfast as the one she had grasped at in her pristine and dull childhood. And, glowing in a uniquely different manner, that of her cousin, who had presented suitably disguised in bellowing drunkenness. 

He’d spoken about little in particular, aware that Jordan’s eyes continued to sort through their surrounding guests with a practicality which was not without humanity. An inquiring mind which traipsed barely on the edge of soulful conversation before, almost in recognition, the pair of beaming girls steered it toward palatable conversation. Hours had already passed without forthright discussion, and as the night continued they revelled in their sincere fallacies. The night passed without a sense of time, and at some point in this cold existence of warm breath, Jordan sat across from another soul of brilliance. She was as drunk as the others, yet something in her vibrant character insisted that Jordan speak - perhaps to simply enjoy the bliss of a conversation with only laughter. However, frustratingly the table had become inundated with words - the two men of the table spoke quietly and deafeningly about some country. Jordan became increasingly bridled until finally interrupting their foreign and exhausting talk. She feigned interest in their surroundings, and leaned forward at the table.

“Having a gay time, now?”  
“Much better.” Rudely, Nick returned to his boring conversation, leaving Jordan to lean back, scorned. She let her attention wander for the first time in the night.  
“This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there...and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” Jordan’s disdain ebbed, wondering idly what a man may do to earn an invitation from a man who was more concept than human.  
“I’m Gatsby.” An ultimatum emerged from these simple two words. She may be shocked, presenting her dimness and place another world between her and the notion physicalised before her. She may also mask her ignorance, leaving her friend to fend for himself before their eyes and perhaps situate herself among them. She chose the latter, eyes resting on the handsome, ethereal man before her; she was now left to wonder whether the girl had been chosen for her glowing mannerisms, or whether it was something Gatsby infected another with. She supposed the truth must have lay somewhere in between. She watched Gatsby’s butler arrive, glad to see the awkward conversation reach an end.   
“...Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”  
Silently, Jordan watched as he left, and the simple-minded girl finding another to speak to. She felt warm comfort reach her again as Nick turned to her in innocent dependence, as though Jordan knew any more than hearsay and notions about the man. All of a sudden, Jordan was exhausted by the night, plucking words from weak opinions and altogether disappointed by the mundanity of the event, compared to the thrill of the search. She could see Nick becoming more enthralled and excited by the words, however vague, and decided to change to a topic that she may find more personally interesting - she half-hoped to prise into Nick’s own extroverted character, like an imported candy, holding familiar tastes in a new and confusing mix. Instead of gleaning any new character, Jordan’s was deafened by a new set of music, and she allowed it to replace her. Her mind went slack, swayed through conflicts purely by the orchestra until her eyes focused on the lovers surrounding her, skin prickling in distinct exposure before the voice of a butler allowed her reprieve.

Jordan Baker did not completely understand why she was invited. However, the knowledge that she had been was titillating. As she was guided through the grand doors, she ran her olive fingers over the frames to see if she would be able to carry any of their gold with her. She was lead to an office, and encouraged to sit in a chair whose cushions would have threatened to swallow anyone of more dwarfish frame. The room was small, yet ornate. Unable to find anything of importance, her eye flitted from wall to wall. No clocks, or photographs, or books. There were paintings, instead, and a tray for the day’s newspaper. The desk, while orange and handsome, was surely new, void of any scuffs or nicks. Jordan waited in anticipation and boredom for a minute, before Gatsby strode through the door behind her, adjusting his collar and shining his brilliant white smile. Jordan rose automatically, though Gatsby gave a nonchalant gesture and encouraged her to sit. As though she were blind and deaf, Jordan continued to stand, until Gatsby sunk into his own desk chair. They stared at each other over the plains of fresh wood. Without the background tick of a clock, Jordan did not know whether time passed at all, marked only at the raising of an eyebrow at Gatsby’s clear disgust of silence. He finally began, holding his hand out to her.  
“Jay Gatsby. I am very glad to speak with you.” The small room seemed to fill with Gatsby’s voice, sharp and perfect. Jordan took his uncomfortably warm hand firmly, with a business-like nature, as she supposed he must have intended. He seemed pleased.  
“Miss Baker. Are you by any chance related to Josephine?”  
“Only in the best of ways, surely. Is that what you wanted to discuss?”  
“Of course not.” Gatsby shook his head, drawing his hand back to the unbroken gleam of the table. He seemed, for a second, to inspect it, and rub at it with his thumb. Then he looked back to Jordan, as though nothing had happened. “You seemed to be a glowing figure, and that I ought to know you.”  
This remark, however, only turned Jordan’s expression as cold as the tone that followed it, eyebrows raised. “Then I’d wish you luck for the night. Perhaps you’d find a gold digger with longer legs than mine.” The rattle-gun speed of the words reduced Gatsby to sputter, pressing a palm to his forehead and insisting.  
“That is not- I would never invite you! I’m very sorry to offend you, Miss Baker, I only meant to see your character, though, you are very impressive, I’m sure.”  
Jordan digested the words for a moment, relaxing back into the chair and feeling her previous disappointment abade. “In that case, I’m glad to speak. Are you sure, however? Perhaps we could push everyone into a room of my height, and whoever may not fit we can usher away to a hotel!”  
Gatsby expression was one resembling a toddler boy, doted upon by a sitter, equal parts confused and entertained. After a few variations, he held up a hand, Jordan’s stifled grin tinged with sickly anxiety. The silence did not last long, as Gatsby preferred.  
“Miss Baker, I heard about your recent competition. Congratulations.”  
“Thank you very much, Gatsby, but I don’t believe you’ve held a club in your life.”  
“On the contrary, Miss Baker, I am very much advanced! In fact, perhaps we could have a competition some time, between us, and our endowed friends.” He gestured toward the shut door, cheering and drunken revelry heard. Jordan wondered whether they’d started a new song, or whether the current score was exceedingly long.  
“I heard that you lost.” Jordan’s attention returned to Gatsby’s face, and his luminous smile. “What a shame, however, those who win are held to such esteem. Second place may be a grace to you.”  
“Perhaps to some who wilt under eyes.” Jordan sniffed. “Second place is not a shame, or a grace, in my view. I simply think of it as where I am, and a measurement from where I wish to be. However, if it is somewhere you aspire to be, then I am glad for you.”  
“Who do you think I am second to?” Gatsby leaned forward, a clouding behind his eyes which itched under Jordan’s skin. She smiled calmly, leaning forward against the desk.  
“You realise sir that we are all second to some. It is a grace.”  
“You imply something, Miss Baker, which is impolite.”  
“I’d imagine a man who throws such parties must have some allowance for flowery, feminine language.”  
“Of which I am well versed, Miss Baker. And I do not believe you are.”  
“You may not trust in it, but it has certainly been a safeguard in other scenarios, which makes it as true as your smile.”  
“I do not put faith in a false identity to live another day, it is dishonest and an insult.”  
Jordan raised a hand, and leaned back. “And I apologise. Your masculinity has been affirmed, no doubt, to see a woman anxious in a caging chair.”  
Gatsby, instead, breathed slowly, soft kindness in his eyes and smile once more. “I have no insecurity in my masculinity. Nor in my femininity, though you seem to have it in both.” He held out a hand, smoothing his hair. “I am sorry you had to see me unravelled.”  
Jordan smiled back, full breaths returning to her as she took it gratefully. “I also apologise, though I do not appreciate the concession of my business. Were you simply looking to discuss golf?”

The mysterious weakness did not avoid Jordan, however neither did his purposeful turn of phrase. They soon returned to comfortable discussion of sports, wherein Jordan described a version of the game which was fully erroneous, and to which Gatsby enthused. His golden character was visible once more to Jordan, and he soon invited her to inspect his wardrobe, with full transparency.  
“I was hoping to show you my medals.” He justified, stepping into the room and throwing the white doors open. Jordan immediately stepped forward without any tone of politeness, inspecting a row of clothes he surely had imported. She inspected a handsome jacket of violet, its odd fitted nature indicative of its foreign origin, she supposed. He simply ran his hand through a draw, retrieving his lost memento and polishing it against his shirt before offering it to Jordan. Fabric still in hand, the recognition sparked in her mind as he spoke.  
“From Montegro. You see, Miss Baker, I found this medal pressed upon me for actions which separated me from one you know.”  
Jordan stared for a moment, before there was a quiet, sharp intake of breath. Then, she turned, resting the jacket delicately with the others, and turning back to him.  
“What, you think I know every woman in town that lost a boy at war? I suppose it would be a fine plan if you found people who gave a damn about the war, but you haven’t. There is no woman who you may sweep with your gold and lavender, there’s just me, and I don’t give a damn about any of that nonsense.”  
He simply waited patiently, before continuing.  
“Your friend, Daisy. She’s in bed with a brute, you know. A handsome man with an ugly nature, and I wish to be acquainted to let her out.”  
“You aren’t unique for loving her. You’re just the only one that spoke to me afterward.” She paused, thinking, and sat down on the edge of his bed. “I do remember you. Tell me what you did together.”  
Their conversation continued in this one-sided nature, as Gatsby relished to divulge all respectable details of their short romance, Jordan’s input only to clarify, or to contribute. Shrieking with laughter at their strange shared relation, they paced the room, and interjected, and soon devolved into a pair of jockeys, racing to compare the strength of their adolescent romps. Eventually, they dwindled, and Jordan, correcting her behaviour, leaned against the wall of the room, giggles slipping away.  
“You know, Tom has a woman? I think he has three each month.”  
“What a brute! A bull. His muscles are crushing his brains.”  
“Oh! Surely, I almost wonder if I know Daisy at all, for all he must have sedated her.”  
“Sedated her?”  
“Oh, with gold, and love, she’s perfectly placated. At least they are situated close by, for now.”  
“I know. Does she notice my home?”  
“No, I thought better than to encourage those two into such a palace.”  
“Then she must see it!” Gatsby exclaimed, standing. “Please, invite her.”  
“Here?”  
“God, no! To, my neighbour!”  
“Her cousin, Nick.”  
“Yes! What a name, and what a fine place. It’s perfectly fine to meet there. I cannot look like a fool.” He clarified, adjusting his glittering tie.  
“And you want me to invite her, to her cousin’s?”  
“Oh, yes. Tell him to invite her.”  
“Oh, this will be so wonderful if you meet.” Jordan did not believe her words a cent, however the knowledge that her friend may spend a day without her red-faced spouse was enough to goad her. And, Gatsby looked so pleased, pink and slightly sick looking, she knew her obligation.  
“Please, tell me more about how you met in the first place.”


End file.
